He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. . But this might be merely a figurative mode of describing his customary vigilance. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. The both of them puttering about the tidy two-story house, Lucy would serve them both steaming cups of tea in the front parlor. For whom had its sharp point been intended? Valade? Or perhaps his wife now that the girl had word of their marriage. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. That would be an unkind twist of fate.
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